11TH NIGHT
by Moriyasha Neko-hime
Summary: "Clocks, clocks, whir softly, do not strike. Mouse King is keen of hearing. Whir whir purr purr. Sing him the old song. Whir whir purr purr. Ring, bell, ring. Ding dong ding dong. He won't last long…" Continuation of Princess TuTu, and The Nutcracker
1. Prologue

**Eleventh Night**

 **A Winter Tale**

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Once upon a time, in a faraway town…

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 **Prologue**

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It was almost midnight, the morning bell had yet to ring, and it was dark in the bookstore save for the dim glow of the lamp sitting on the desk. The old man was trying in vain to calm his excited trembling as he held the old leatherbound book in his decrepit hands.

He had found it.

After generations of Book Men, he had finally found it.

The very first written word of that wretched Story Spinner, Drosselmeier. Every one of his ancestors knew of it; the tale of Drosselmeier in his youth, when he was imprisoned by a wicked spell and how he was set free by a naive young girl. If she had known what horrors the man that boy would grow up to be was to inflict on the world, he was sure she never would have released him.

However, he and his comrades were the 'Stoppers of Stories'. They had prevented most of Drosselmeier's tragic endings in the simplest of ways. Who was to say they could not prevent his entire existence in the same manner?

Stepping down from his stool, the man took the book to the back room. Standing before the fireplace, he allowed his aged hands to trace the faded gold lettering on the front. The initials of the given and middle names were completely gone, but the name of Drosselmeier still shone clearly in the firelight, as if mocking him.

Paging backwards, the man eventually came to the very middle of the book and proceeded to rip out the pages. Once the sheet of paper was freed, he carefully tossed it into the fireplace where the words disappeared as it blackened and curled in on itself. Feeling an odd sort of glee as he watched the ancient paper burn to nothing in the flames, he continued to tear out the other pages one by one.

So intent on his duty, on the crackling of the fire and the writhing of the pages as they died, the old man did not notice the sound of small feet scurrying in the hall, or the faint scratching behind the walls. Until finally, there was only one page left. Grinning, the old storekeeper took the time to rip this last page in half. Tossing them into the fire, he was startled to see the two halves disappear in a burst of blue flame.

All at once books, lamps and various knickknacks fell from their shelves. The scratching behind the walls became louder and the scurrying was all around him. Spinning around, the man scanned the room, but could see nothing.

Suddenly, the light in the fireplace went out and the man was plunged into darkness. Trying to see through the black, the shopkeeper could not see how the fire had died. He could not even see any embers remaining from the great blaze to prove the fire had ever been burning. The entire room was deathly cold.

Turning to retrieve one of the lamps that had fallen from the bookcase, the old man went rigid.

Dozens, no, _hundreds_ of glowing yellow eyes stared back at him from the depths of the shadows. Not moving, or making a sound. His first instinct was to remain still, fearing that they—whatever they were—would attack at the slightest movement.

But then more eyes appeared. Fourteen yellow eyes burned brighter than all the rest, all focused on the decrepit old man at the other end of the room. Those eyes were soon joined by seven wretched smiles of shining white teeth that gleamed like swords and made the old man tremble with fear.

But the worst was yet to come. Together, the seven mouths, with seven voices began to sing together.

" _This son with sevenfold crown  
Will bring Nutcracker down.  
Yea, never fear  
He will avenge his mother dear."  
_

The sound of their voices, singing the same verse over and over was horrifying. It grated against every nerve in the old man's body, screaming at him in mad terror, until he could bear it no longer and cried out in an attempt to drown out their voices.

For a moment, the voices were silent. But after the man's outcry had faded, they're eyes smiling, they sang once more.

" _O Life, blood red and milky white,  
Leave thee for the shades of night."_

Without needing anything further, the shadows fell over the Book Man like a giant wave, crushing him and drowning his screams.

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The church stood in the very center of Gold Crown, its tower able to overlook everything, firm and unafraid amidst the dense fog of the cold winter night. The bells rang out at the stroke of midnight, as if to say to the shadows 'I am not afraid. I will abide by my unending duty.' And the shadows in turn seemed to retreat ever so slightly at the challenge, while the rest of the city slept on peacefully.

However, there was the slightest movement atop the dome roof as something sat against the tall spire. Even if someone had been awake at that time of night, they would not likely have been able to see the man very clearly. He could have easily been mistaken for a very large owl.

The soft wind caught his yellow coat and rustled it about while his white hair remained trapped beneath his hat. The bells finished ringing, and the man smiled as he raised his cherry-wood gaze to look out at the city. The world was dark and still, and the Yuletide was but a few days away. There was work to be done.

Tilting his head back to look up at the night sky, his voice as deep as a church bell and as resounding as an owl's call, he began to sing.

" _Clocks, clocks, whir softly, do not strike._

 _Mouse King is keen of hearing._

 _Whir whir purr purr._

 _Sing him the old song._

 _Whir whir purr purr._

 _Ring, bell, ring._

 _Ding dong ding dong._

 _He won't last long…"_


	2. Chapter One - Winter Holiday

**~ One ~**

 **~ Winter Holiday ~**

The bell rang throughout Gold Crown Academy and the students within hurried from their classrooms. Today, they were more anxious than ever to return to their dorms, to pack their things and return home for the steadily approaching Yuletide. With that in mind, several friends and lovers took the time to exchange presents and good wishes for the holidays in various courtyards, hallways and corridors.

One student, however, was not in a particular hurry. Nor did he stop to join any of the other students as they rattled away or exchanged colorfully wrapped parcels.

He merely made his way to the cloakroom, where he retrieved said thick article of clothing and covered himself as he stepped outside into the crisp winter air. With his cloak trailing behind him, several girls swooned as the black material made him look even more handsome and regal. But he paid them no mind as he continued trudging down the stairs.

Tilting his head back, Fakir directed his emerald gaze to the clear, blue sky above him. There were only a few wisps of cloud, no real signs of thick Cumulus offering snow from any direction. While he was somewhat grateful for the weather not being cold enough for snowfall, he knew it made little difference now that many of the birds had gone South for the winter.

Inhaling a lungful of cold air, the young man released it in a cloud of warm haze and continued across the courtyard. More students were outside as well, offering and accepting tokens from friends they were not expected to see until the New Year. Two girls chatting away happily caught his eye and his slow pace became even more sluggish.

One was fairly dark, not so much black as well tanned, with her lavender hair done up in a bun on the back of her head sat alongside her blonde friend at Odile's Fountain, both smiling and laughing at the prospects for the Christmas season. These two were very good friends, the darker of the two perhaps being one of the only people in school—if not in Gold Crown as a whole—to put up with the sunshine-haired girl's antics. However, they always sat with just enough space between them that some people wondered if they were either wary of being too close or having a fight.

Fakir knew for a fact that it was neither of these things. The small space between the two friends once belonged to a third member of their group, who had fit so perfectly that they seemed incomplete to be without her. But like a dream that fades away when you try to remember, her two friends could not understand why they continued to hold her place open when they could not even recall her face, much less that she had even existed.

No one remembered the story that had blanketed their city for so many years; no one remembered the snowy-haired prince, or his raven-haired princess, or the awkward redhead who had attended the Academy. So no one could understand how the passionate ballet dancer had felt more alone than anyone everyday he attended classes.

Shaking his head, he turned away and continued across the courtyard. Passing beneath the school clock, Fakir's thoughts turned to the forthcoming holiday and the tasks that remained undone. He still had yet to finish his gifts for Rachael and her new born baby girl. With Charon's help, he was working on whittling a mobile to hang above the infant's cradle, and making a metal bracelet for Rachael. However, even after all this time, Fakir didn't really know Rachael's husband, Hans, all that well, so he had come to the decision to simply buy him something like a new coat from the tailor instead.

Crossing the bridge that connected the Academy to the rest of Gold Crown, Fakir passed through the main gate to head into town. Fakir was soon surrounded by shops filled with people and music and light. Windows were all aglow with candles and color from the decorations, reflecting off of bows and ornaments as they warmed the shops as well as the hearts of all who saw them. For a time, Fakir was happy to take in the pleasant atmosphere around him, but his emerald gaze soon turned upward to the calm blue once again.

This would mark the second winter since the end of the **"The Prince and the Raven**. **"** It was the second winter since Gold Crown's release from the magic of Drosselmeier's tragedy. It was the second winter since Mytho's and Rue's departure into the magical realm the pale Prince had once ruled. It was the second winter since Fakir had taken up writing, honing his abilities with care and precision. And it was the second winter since Duck had returned to her bird form, never to dance or speak again.

They had fought and won Mytho's and Rue's freedom and defeated the Raven and Drosselmeier's story. But what was left after it all?

Lowering his gaze back to the Earth, Fakir at last took notice of the shadow beside his own. Already knowing who it was, the youth cast an irritated glance over his shoulder at the bespectacled piano student, who stood closer to him than anyone in the Academy had ever dared.

"Autor." It was the first time the ballet dancer had spoken all day, and he could not hold back the note of disdain in his tone.

"Fakir." The pianist nodded with equal disregard to honorifics, pushing his oval-framed glasses back up the ridge of his nose.

Looking at them as they stood on the street facing each other with a heavy air of condescension, many could assume that these two disliked each other greatly and avoided meeting at any given time. However, in truth, the two boys held something of a begrudging respect as well as a reluctant friendship toward each other, as they were two of the only people in all of Gold Crown to remember the story that had held the city captive.

Nonetheless, they found one another's presence somewhat grating at times and never met but to exchange some insult or other.

Today, however, Fakir was not in the mood to match wits with his incredibly distant cousin and turned to continue down the street. Naturally, Autor followed him.

"You left school in a rather listless appearance today," the shorter-haired youth said. "Are you not excited for the Holiday?"

Fakir made a disinterested noise in his throat.

Autor straightened his expensive-looking, pale blue jacket with an assured nod. "I trust you've kept up on your writing," he went on without invitation. "I haven't witnessed any extraordinary changes for some time now. You _are_ exercising your power and not just writing, aren't you?"

Fakir did not answer him. He felt no need to tell Autor that he had not written anything since winter had set in. That since the last 'V' of geese had passed over his house almost two weeks ago, he had been unable to put pen to paper at all.

Displeased that Fakir had not responded, even to insult him, Autor continued his lecture. "At the very least, couldn't you do something about the weather?" He asked blandly, not noticing how hard Fakir bit the inside of his lip. "It should have started to snow by now. And I hate cold that doesn't do anything."

Fakir suddenly stopped walking, and Autor almost walked right into his back.

"If I could do anything about the cold, it would be spring already," he retorted at last as he turned to face Autor with a scowl. "So stop harassing me to fix every little discomfort you have. I can tell you now, she never complains to me about anything! And she has more right than anyone!"

Stunned by the outburst, Autor watched Fakir storm away down the street in a flurry of black fabric. His wide brown eyes drooped with his shoulders as his cousin's last words sunk in. But with a firm countenance, the young pianist followed the darker haired ballet dancer down the brightly decorated street.

For a while, Fakir tried to ignore the nagging instinct that had developed to tell him Autor was watching or following him. In the end he found the effort useless and stopped in the middle of the street to turn around and face the bespectacled youth who had stopped walking, leaving exactly six feet between them.

"What?" He asked curtly, his tone telling Autor how thin his patience was.

Carefully averting his brown gaze from Fakir's burning emerald green, Autor straightened his already straight glasses in an attempt to look casual. "How is she?"

As much as he wanted to stay angry, to lash out with every acidic word he knew, Fakir suddenly felt his irritation cool like tempered steel dropped in water. Casting his eyes to the ground, his posture told Autor it was safe to approach and he slowly closed the distance between them until only two feet remained.

"It's too cold for her to be outside for very long, so she stays inside a lot these days," Fakir replied quietly.

"But she's doing alright?" Autor asked carefully. "She doesn't seem ill or…anything of the sort?"

Another wave of melancholy washed away what remained of his anger and annoyance as his thoughts turned to the small duck that had suddenly become the focus of their fragmented conversation. Like the winter before, Ahiru had not left with the other birds, instead keeping herself warm within the confines of the _Schmiede_. While Fakir was glad she had not left him, he could not help the stab of guilt from knowing she should have.

Silence having fallen between them, Autor heaved a sigh as he ran his hand through his short grey-lavender hair. "Do you want to get a cup of tea, or something?"

Looking away, Fakir shook his head with a sigh. "I have some shopping to do before I head home," he said quietly as he moved to turn the corner just a few feet from where he stood. "Merry Christmas, Autor."

It wasn't until he turned the corner of the building that Fakir realized that he had not paid attention to where his feet had taken him. Just down the street was the used bookstore he had often visited up until a little over a year ago, but had since stopped after the owner of the establishment had attempted to cut off his hands and kill him.

The attempts on his life were something he still feared. Although the Book Men had not approached him in the past two years, it did not change the very real threat they presented to him and his loved ones.

Autor followed his cousin's emerald gaze, fully understanding his apprehension and grasped his shoulder to draw him away from the corner. He knew more about the Book Men and their ways than they probably thought he did. But his insight to their traditions and schemes was not without its own price. Knowing the things they had done to people turned his stomach, even if he didn't show it.

Neither had held any sort of dealings with the cloaked killers since the end of the story that had held their city captive for years unnumbered. But just because they never saw them, in no way meant they were not constantly seen by them.

Both boys knew that they were always at risk.

They knew—

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Standing amidst the crowds of people, his cherry-wood gaze found them.

And he smiled.

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—they were being watched.

Both Fakir and Autor spun around in a panicked endeavor to find whoever it was they somehow knew was watching them. No one on the street gave them any severe attention, going about their own business, moving from shop to shop.

But they could feel it. Someone's attention, focused solely on them.

They spared each other only a brief glance before they shot off down the street. They did not care where they went. They only knew that they wanted to run, away from the bookstore and the unseen gaze that had struck something deep inside of them.

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

Duck sat on the sill of the frost-covered window, as she did everyday, waiting for Fakir to come home from school.

Leaning slightly to one side to peer up through the window pane, the white-gold bird craned her long neck so that her oval head could see the clear blue, winter sky was unhindered by any clouds at all. She saw a small brown sparrow dart across the sky every now and again, but none of the bigger birds. They had long since left for warmer climates.

While she remained in Gold Crown with Fakir. As she had the previous winter. Duck didn't regret her decision to stay. She doubted she would stand being away from the writer for more than a day. But she often found herself thinking. The instinct to head south was no more than a small tug on her thoughts, one that she could easily ignore in her desire to stay. The last winter, she had hardly noticed until Fakir mentioned it.

Really, she could not remember what it was like to simply be a duck; to worry about little more than where she was able to swim or when she was going to eat. She had come to believe that her time as a human girl would eventually fade away, become like a dream that was just vivid enough to recall and then dismiss just as easily. But she could remember the first time she had seen Mytho as the only moment before her transformation, and every moment since had been very clear and she had become aware of the world around her. She was always thinking about things like the weather, events going on in town, people that came into the _Schmiede_ to have things sharpened or repaired. She thought about things as far back as she could remember, and wondered about things that had yet to happen.

That had become her curse since losing her human form. She couldn't become involved in anything she really thought about. While she could understand the words of everyone around her, she could not speak. Even if she wanted to help with things, she had no hands to offer her help with. She couldn't even walk on her own most of the time and dealt with being carried by Fakir almost everywhere. At times, she wished she could forget her time as a human, but she always regretted the thought instantly. Forgetting would be no better than giving up, and she would not allow herself to do that.

Duck was suddenly startled out of her thoughts when two figures dashed past the window, and jumped down from the windowsill with a frightened 'quack!' when Fakir and Autor crashed through the door. The latter fell to the ground, his breath completely spent, while a similarly exhausted Fakir leaned back against the door—as if preparing to hold someone out.

"Quack?"

Autor looked up from the floor with a slight bob of his head. "Please pardon…the sudden…int-intrusion…"

Fakir looked down at Duck as she stepped over and looked up at him with concern in her bright blue eyes. 'What's wrong? Are you scared? What happened?'

Despite his still racing heartbeat, the young man managed a smile and knelt down to pat her head. "I'm home…"

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It would be a few more minutes before the boys got their wind back, and the three sat down together at the dining table. Fakir prepared two mugs of coffee for himself and Autor, while he set a small bowl of milk with some honey for Duck on the table. The small water bird accepted it with as much a smile as she could give, wondering what could have possibly spooked the two so badly that they would run at top speed all the way home.

"What do you think that was?"

The piano student sighed, leaning his chin against his knuckles. "I have no idea," he replied. "It felt like… I don't know how to describe it!"

Fakir nodded in agreement, tearing off some pieces of bread and dipping it into the milk before offering it to Duck. Whatever it had been, he was somehow able to put a word to it: 'Familiar.' But he really had no idea how it could be familiar, when he was sure had never felt like that at any point in his memory. It was disquieting in a way Fakir could not put words to.

Autor sighed again as he looked down into the dark liquid in his mug, watching as steam rose from out of his reflection. Any deep thoughts that Fakir had on the matter would likely be kept to himself until he had worked out his initial feelings about it. The writer almost never let his guard down to Autor, though they had been through a bit to merit a better relationship with his cousin, he still kept to his own counsel about certain things. The musician, however, had things of his own he had never revealed to his immediate family, much less Fakir, so he didn't prod him about it.

And on that note, Autor decided to change the subject. "My family is hosting a Christmas party tomorrow evening," he said, jerking his cousin from his private thoughts. "I was wondering if perhaps you would be interested in attending."

Fakir blinked, confused at the sudden shift in topic as well as the idea of him attending an actual party. "No. I don't think so…"

"Why?" The bespectacled youth asked over his mug.

"I've never been to one before," Fakir replied.

"This can be your first."

"I would be surrounded by hordes of people that I have no connection to."

"So will I," Autor agreed mildly. "So it would make sense that we could attend together."

"I have no formal clothes aside from my school uniform."

"You can borrow something of mine. You and I are about the same height."

Fakir sighed, combing his bangs out of his eyes. "I'm not going to leave Duck at home by herself…"

"Bring her with you," his cousin replied without missing a beat. "I'm sure she would enjoy a change of scenery for little bit."

The small duck in question looked between the two boys, drawing Fakir's gaze. Her big blue eyes spoke of honest interest on her part, and he understood why. He knew she had never been to a Christmas party before, not even those small celebrations some classes held. She had only been enrolled in the academy from the start of the New Year to the end of summer.

"Alright…" He sighed.

"Great," Autor smiled, standing up and taking his jacket off the back of his chair. "There was something else I wanted you to see, as well."

"What is it?"

The music student pulled on his jacket, and replied, "The completed story."

Both Duck and Fakir blinked in surprise, but the black-haired writer recovered swiftly. With one last pat to his bird's back, he stood up, deciding to walk his schoolmate to the corner.

Stepping back out into the cold, the two boys were silent for a long moment. While both were wary of whatever had startled them before, they also pondered over other questions rolling in their own thoughts.

"Autor," Fakir spoke at last. "Did you publish the completed book?"

"No," the pianist replied, a smile spreading across his face. "Once we put all the pages that you wrote in order, it simply made itself a part of the original volume that I had on my desk. It was amazing to wake up to find it like that!"

Fakir wasn't sure if 'amazing' was the word he would use, but kept that to himself. Autor was always enthralled by Drosselmeier and his power to spin stories into reality. He didn't understand the fear the emerald-eyed boy felt at knowing that whatever he wrote down could unintentionally damage the world around him. He didn't understand how it felt to know that precious things were in constant danger of his immature power.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Fakir."

The ballet student looked up with a small jolt. "What?"

"About Duck…" Autor straightened his glasses, once again, unnecessarily. "Have you…made any attempts to change her human?"

Fakir visibly flinched. "No. You've said yourself that my power is still under-developed," he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. "I don't want to try something like that unless I'm absolutely certain I can do it right."

Autor looked up to a point in the sky above him. "I see."

They again fell into a thoughtful silence, the only sounds being their footsteps on the cobblestone street. Suddenly, Fakir stopped walking. "No."

Autor stopped a couple of feet ahead and looked back at his immobile cousin. "Fakir?"

The youth bowed his head, hiding his eyes behind his black bangs. "That's not it at all. I'm…"

 _I'm afraid._

He raised his fists, gazing at them before opening them to his eyes. "Autor. When something is drastically changed, and is damaged because of that…can you mend the fracture? Or will trying to do that only make it worse?"

The pianist sighed. "If you have the power to change something for the better, it's only natural to want to use it."

"Better for whom?" He asked, honestly wanting an answer. "Maybe it is natural to want to, but is it _right_?"

Autor glared. "You're being an idiot. It's obvious what has to be done, and what you want to do. You just have to make it happen!"

The music student was expecting the taller, darker-haired ballet dancer to shout at him, threaten him with physical injury or actually follow through on the threat without speaking it. That was Fakir's usual way of replying to Autor's exuberance involving his ability. So he was naturally surprised when his cousin merely dropped his hands to his sides and raised his eyes to him. His emerald gaze, normally so firm and full of fire, was tired and devoid of even the smallest spark.

"You don't get it," Fakir said quietly as he turned to walk back home.

Autor, left alone and apprehensive, turned his back to the _Schmiede_ and headed home.

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

Night fell across Gold Crown, darkening the sky to a deep blue that glittered with silver. Duck sat at the window in Fakir's bedroom, looking between the violet curtains that hung before the glass. The moon slowly began its slow climb into the night sky, its white face glowing softly as it looked upon the celebrations going on below. Following its gaze, Duck's blue eyes went out to the town lit up with color for the Yuletide. She wished she would walk through the streets Fakir had described to her and see the colors and feel the happiness of it all as more than just small tickles in her heart.

The warm glow of a lamp appeared behind her, and the small duck turned to greet Fakir as he closed the door behind him and carried the lamp to the small bedside dresser. "Charon's locked up for the night," he said. "It's cold tonight, so try not to fall off the bed."

The white-gold duck sent an indignant glare from across the room before flapping her wings to land on the bed. But upon touching down on the covers, just as Fakir slid beneath the blankets, she looked up at him with concern in her blue orbs.

"What is it?"

Blue eyes turned to look at something at the other end of the room and Fakir followed her gaze to the paper, ink wells and writing quill that had been left untouched for the past few weeks. Duck had often fallen asleep while he stayed up writing, if not stories then usually in his journal. Of course she would notice that he had hardly picked up his writing tools in days except to move them to various places around the room.

Fakir sighed softly before offering her a small smile and an affectionate pat. He couldn't tell her that the last time he had written had been a story that left him feeling helpless. "I've just been tired lately," he answered instead. "I'm taking a break."

His words did nothing to take away the concern from Duck's eyes, but rather than gaze at him, the small bird hopped closer and laid her yellow wings over the scar on his right hand. 'I'm here,' she tried to day. 'I'm with you, and I won't leave you.'

The youth offered her a soft embrace. "I'm alright. Really. Don't worry about it."

The two sat that way before at last turning out the light as they lay down under the thick winter blankets. After a few long moments, Duck succumbed to slumber. However, Fakir lay awake in the darkness, afraid for the small water fowl. She carried so much weight every day, he wished he could take it all away.

They had made the choice together to let go of the Prince and the tidy living according to the roles they had been given. He knew it had been his own words, his own resolve to leave the role he had been given and exist as 'Fakir' that had given Duck the courage to let go of Mytho, Princess TuTu and her life as a human girl. They had both known what had to be done, and joining their strength they had won against the story. It was his support that had brought her back from the depths of Despair to face reality, and her hope that had enabled him to change the course of the story with his untrained hand.

He never left her, keeping his promise to the young girl who was truly a duck, and finished _**"**_ **The Prince and the Raven"** as he had promised Mytho. He had found strength in what had transpired between all of them, and that gave him the courage to live on with a real purpose.

But as the days passed he found himself missing the sound of her voice, the sight of her smiling with more than just her eyes. He began to miss seeing her at school, and often searched the crowds for an awkward redhead he knew would never be there.

Fakir had found himself considering using his power as Autor had suggested long ago. The possibility of giving her back her humanity, of changing her with the influence of his writing. But he was always left unsure if that wish wasn't dishonest and wrong. He had told her to accept the reality of who they truly were, yet found himself missing the girl she had not been born as. What if it was more his wish than hers?

Where had it gone? Where was the strength and resolve they had found that day? Why couldn't they live as they were and be happy with themselves? Perhaps living 'happily ever after' was something only meant for fairytale heroes and their lady love…

Fakir was no hero, and while he could admit to himself that he loved her very much, he knew that Duck had never belonged to him. He knew her affection was for the white Prince, not the foolish black-clad Knight. He knew that he had realized his feelings far too late in the story to make any difference to either of their lives. But that never stopped him from hoping for her happiness.

However, on the day winter had finally settled over the town, he had let his hand write a story about a small duck, just to know what she was unable to say to him. He learned what she suffered, how trapped she truly felt inside her own skin, inside her own thoughts. He had known that she was changed since her role as Princess TuTu, but he had no idea how damaged she was until her feelings had been put down on paper before his very eyes. Unable to live contentedly as a bird because of the time she had spent as as a girl without the power of the Prince's Heart, yet incapable of living. Unable to move forward, and unable to go back.

He had not lifted his quill once since then. It wasn't that he was blocked in any way. On the contrary, his hands itched to write. But he worried—no, he _knew_ that if he tried to write anything, it would become the one story he truly desired and feared more than anything.

Duck, while unhappy, had accepted her life as a simple duck. If he changed her human, she might never forgive him for breaking his word to her and refusing to accept her as a bird. It would be the ultimate betrayal and he would never forgive himself for breaking that trust. She might leave him. And he honestly didn't think he could live without her.

Fakir knew he loved her and was willing to stay with her no matter her appearance, but his vow to remain at her side meant nothing if he could not make her happy. He, too, was incapable of moving back or forward knowing she was suffering.

"You deserve to be happy," he whispered softly, stroking the feathers along her back. "I just wish I knew how…"

As he gently pet her, completely awake in the dark, he didn't notice the distant voice that filled the night. Not even when his eyes became heavy did he hear the whispered song.

Only as he was on the edge of slumber did he discern the familiar melody on the air. But the thought was gone as dreams claimed him. Dreams of perfect, pure white snowflakes falling from the black sky like scattered swan feathers.

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

And all throughout Gold Crown, the people dreamed of endless hills and deep forests veiled in white.


	3. Chapter Two - The Stahlbaum House

**~ Two ~**

 **~ The Stahlbaum House ~**

The next morning, all the town awoke to find snow covering every street and rooftop in a blanket of white cold.

'How weird,' Duck thought as she looked out the dining room window. 'The sky was completely clear last night…'

While surprised and confused, the small duck watched as children ran about making throwing snowballs at one another until they were laughing senseless. The longing she had felt the previous winter returned, despite her attempts to quash it down. Snow men, snow angels, snowball fights, all of those things that human children did and looked like so much fun…

She sighed as she turned away from the window, knowing it was pointless to yearn for such things. Things that a duck could not do, nor have any actual desire to do. It was wrong to go pining over what had rightfully been taken away. It would only make her friend worry.

She looked up when Fakir and Charon stepped into the room, the former reluctantly pulling on his cloak. "Are you sure you'll be fine without us, Charon?"

The older man smiled. "I've been without you longer than one day, Fakir," he replied. "Don't worry. Just go and try to have fun tonight." He turned his fond smile to Duck. "Both of you."

While Charon had been involved in a few key points in the story, the man could only remember odd bits and pieces of his life within the story. He could recall how Fakir had come to be in his care, as well as giving the boy a special sword that had once been in his possession. But the awkward girl and the beautiful prince that had befriended his son and the doll he had crafted with his own hands were little more than a blur of a dream. But he believed Fakir when he tried to tell him about them.

Sighing, Fakir nodded and embraced Charon before taking Duck into his arms and tucking her away in his cloak. Stepping out into the cold, the small duck shivered and huddled closer to the young writer as he wrapped his cloak tighter around them as he walked. The youth was always careful about holding the little duck, or touching her altogether.

Unhindered by her own blushing, she hugged him and sighed, contentedly breathing in his smell. The smell of a forest after a summer rain that always made her heart flutter like a hummingbird. Being so close to him, she prayed that Fakir wouldn't feel it.

Fakir' thoughts, however, were directed to the steadily falling snow. The sky had been cloudless for weeks. Just the other night Duck had been watching the moon and the stars from his bedroom window as she often did. But now snow was falling all around like hundreds of white feathers. Where had this come from?

He wished it had stayed clear. The lack of snow thus far had made him feel less conscious of Duck's condition. But now it was so thick on the ground the young man wondered if he would even be able to make it home later that night.

Pausing on that thought, Fakir realized that he never actually been inside Autor's house before. Aside from his and Duck's visits from the room where the pianist's collection of Drosselmeier's books were kept, the rest of the large building was a mystery. After a time of walking along the wall that surrounded the town, they at last came to the Gear Fountain and Autor's house of many doors.

After pondering for a moment, Fakir decided to go to the pair of doors furthest from Autor's room. Once walking up the single step and faced with the red-brown wood, he took hold of the iron door knocker—ornately shaped like an owl spreading its wings—and hit it three times.

Stepping back, he waited and soon the door opened. "Yes?"

The meek voice belonged to an equally timid-looking girl about Fakir's age with short hair and big blue eyes windowed by a pair of big, round glasses. While the young man did not know her, Duck recognized Malen from the Art Division instantly when she looked out through the break in his cloak.

The artist suddenly gasped, realizing who it was standing on her doorstep. "Fakir, from the Ballet Division…!"

"Hello," Fakir offered a small bow, feeling a little awkward though he would never admit it. "Autor invited me…"

"Oh!" Malen stepped aside, opening the door wider to allow him entrance. "C-Come in! Come in, please!"

Stepping past the threshold, Fakir stomped the snow from his boots and shook the water from his hair and cloak. "Pardon my intrusion."

"It-It's no trouble at all," the girl smiled bashfully, her pale skin taking on a mild blush. She didn't offer to take his cloak, for which the young man was grateful. He felt it safer that no one saw the duck he had brought with him. Who was to say someone wouldn't mistake her for a gift? Possibly even dinner? It was too much of a risk. 

"It is surprising, I must say. Autor has never invited anyone from school before. I didn't even know you two were acquainted."

"We, uh…met a few times in the library," Fakir offered.

Malen nodded with a helpless smile, seeming to believe that without difficulty. "Oh! Excuse me, I never…" She gave a small curtsy to hide her expanding blush. "My name is Malen. Autor is my older twin brother…"

"It's very nice to meet you," the black-haired ballet dancer nodded. He hid his surprise very well; Autor had never mentioned having siblings to him either. Taking into account that he and the pianist were distant cousins, that would only stand to reason that this young woman was related to him as well.

Growing a little nervous with having him stand watching her, Malen moved to leave the door. "Please…this way."

Following her down the hall, Fakir and Duck—still peeking through his cloak—couldn't help but admire the Yuletide splendor that filled the house with a warm glow. Spicy-scented garlands with enormous red bows were wrapped gracefully around the twin banisters of the stairway. Vases of red Christmas roses sat on almost every table. Holly and laurel wreaths hung in every window they passed, though it did nothing to hinder the view of outside. They even saw two miniature trees; one trimmed with oranges, the other was full of tiny crab apples.

Fakir had known that Autor's family was fairly high in social status, but he hadn't actually prepared himself to see their wealth on full display in the form of Christmas decorations. And it was then that the dancer and writer wondered—for the very first time—what Autor's parents would be like. Perhaps the young music student had inherited his 'higher than thou' attitude from either his mother or father. In which case, Fakir wasn't sure if he could handle his cousin and another possibly worse adult.

Before he knew it, they had arrived at the open doors of the parlor and Fakir straightened. Stepping into the room, he instantly had to blink several times as sunlight poured in through the parlor windows at the far end of the room. But he relaxed as the soft melody of a piano being played reached his ears and his vision returned.

Just in front of the windows sat a black piano, but the figure playing the ivory—in spite of several resemblances—was not Autor as Fakir had expected. The man raised his grey head to look up at the two youths from behind black glasses before a smile touched his aged features and he brought the melody to a close before rising from his seat.

"Father. This is Fakir, I'm certain you know him," Malen smiled and motioned to the stunned youth beside her. "Autor invited him."

While Fakir could immediately see the resemblance Autor shared with this man, the dancer wondered how he had failed to notice it when this very man—once a flightless bird—played the piano for his ballet class everyday. 'Mr. Penguin' was what all of the students called him, due to the fancy black tuxedo he was always wearing, though truthfully, Fakir had never thought to ask his real name.

"Welcome to my home, Mister Fakir," the man smiled warmly as he offered his hand. The boy was still for only a second before he accepted the man's hand in a rare gesture of friendship and respect. "It's an honor to have you. I am Pence Stahlbaum. Although…" He chuckled, "…I won't take offense if you happen to call me 'Mr. Penguin'."

Fakir offered a helpless smile in return, but truly felt lighter upon taking in the man's warm countenance. "Thank you…for having me."

Mr. Stahlbaum clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't feel so tense, my boy! Relax. So long as you are here, my home is yours." He grasped the heavy fabric of Fakir's cloak. "You are very welcome to leave this in our closet."

"No, thank you," the dancer replied quickly, feeling Duck stiffen in his arms. "I'm sorry if I've tracked water through your house…" he cast a glance back the way he had come, "…or offended you, but…I feel more comfortable to keep it for now."

Mr. Stahlbaum shrugged with a smile. "Whatever makes you happy."

Both boy and duck relaxed, and the youth again offered a smile to the man. "Thank you, sir."

The sound of a throat being cleared called everyone's attention to the doorway. There was Autor, and looking oddly irate—much like when someone spoke too loudly in the library—he entered the parlor with a heated pound to his step as he approached. Once standing beside Fakir, the boy looked to his sister, who immediately cast her eyes to the floor.

"If he told you I was expecting him, you should have brought him to me when he arrived," he said icily to the girl.

Malen shifted under the scrutiny of her brother's brown eyes. "I…I thought that…Father might want to meet with him…"

"It is a rare treat for you to invite guests of your own, Autor," Mr. Stahlbaum smiled as he put an arm around his daughter. "I'm glad to know that you've made friends with one such as Mister Fakir. Do you play for him?"

Autor never let his eyes rest upon his father, instead looking from his sister to Fakir. "My room is upstairs," he said evenly to his cousin. "I've picked out a few things you can try on. Follow me."

With that, the bespectacled youth turned and left the parlor without another word.

Confused, Fakir looked from the doorway to Mr. Stahlbaum. The man's smile had faded, his air of delight having dimmed. Malen hugged the man around the middle, and the two shared a sad smile as they embraced. It was a comforting, yet melancholy sight to see.

"Thank you," was all the emerald-eyed youth could say before bowing briefly and hurrying out of the room to follow Autor. He pursued his cousin down the elegantly decorated hall, catching up with him and matching his stride easily.

"What was _that_?" The writer and dancer demanded.

"What was what?" Was Autor's bland reply as they came to the stairs.

Fakir grasped the musician's arm and turned him around to meet his face. "That attitude! Toward your father and your sister!"

His cousin sniffed disdainfully. "It's not important."

At that moment, Duck burst out from the confines of Fakir's cloak, flapping her wings at Autor furiously as she quacked and quacked in admonishment. Once finished, she landed at the boys' feet with a huff. She was aware that neither one had understood her, made all the clearer by the confused blink they shared, but she nodded anyway, completely confidant that she had been right in whatever she had said.

"In any case," Autor sighed, choosing to ignore Duck's attempted lecture as he started up the stairs. "You're here, so we might as well carry on."

Both Fakir and Duck exchanged a look, sighing at the boy's bull-headed disposition. When it came to holding his own opinion, Autor was as relentless. Arguing with him only made him as willful and fixated as said bull and they could do nothing to dissuade him. Deciding it was best to let it be for now, Fakir dropped to one knee to take his duck back into his arms. She gladly returned to his embrace and he rose up, but just as her boy moved to start up the stairs he stopped.

Just beside the staircase was a room, its twin doors opened to allow the bright golden glow of the lit lamps and the man within to be seen. His back was to the entrance, and the table at which he sat was covered in cogs, wheels, gears and an assortment of other mechanical parts, as well as a few bottles of liquid and cleaning brushes.

With his back to them, the most that could be noted about the man himself was his long, shaggy, bone-white hair that he had tied back into a tail with a blue band. Going about his own business, he hardly seemed worth taking note of. But something about just the man's back held Fakir's complete attention. Something—

"Fakir!"

The writer was pulled from his thoughts at the call of his name, and he looked to his cousin at the top of the stairs.

"Are you coming or not?"

Fakir looked from Autor, to the duck in his arms—who regarded him with curiosity her blue eyes—then back to the man beyond the open doors. Even after the pianist's call, the stranger had not diverted his attention from his work in the slightest. Somehow, this served to unnerve the boy and he quickly carried his charge upstairs, not looking back.

As such, the youth did not catch the single cherry-wood eye, nor the smile the man cast over his shoulder.

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

The upstairs were no less extravagantly decorated than the first floor. Boughs of holly, hoops of mistletoe and ropes of ivy lined their way down the hall to Autor's room. However, the dazzling colors of the hallway stopped at the boy's door and the warm light did not pass beyond the threshold.

The musician's bedroom was dark, save for the white light shining through his window that allowed the writer and duck to see that his walls, curtains and bedspread were blue rather than black. A tall bookcase to the left of the window was filled to the brim with manuscripts, professionally bound books and some simply papers held together by leather chords. To the right of the window was a writing desk with an unlit lamp and a clock covered by a glass dome resting on it. The hearth was almost completely dead, with only a few embers clinging to life amidst the ash and charcoal. Duck and Fakir were both glad he had kept his cloak, the room was cold.

"Excuse the lack of heat," Autor said as he threw a couple of logs and some balls of paper into the fireplace. "Most of the servants are busy preparing everything for the party tonight, and I've been in my sanctuary all morning so I haven't been tending to it." Striking a match, he dropped it amongst the wood and paper and after a few moments they began to burn.

As the room began to grow warm, Duck dropped down to the floor and Fakir at last removed his cloak to drape it over the chair of the desk. As he did so, Autor unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and withdrew what seemed to be a book bound in a thick cloth. Unraveling the material, the familiar, black book became more visible and the writer did not have to read the title which story it was.

"Here it is," Autor offered the text to Fakir.

The ballet dancer, who had read this very book since childhood, could see how much thicker it had become. Just as his schoolmate and cousin had told him, it now contained not only what Drosselmeier had written before he died, but the pages written by his machine as well as Fakir.

Reaching out to lay his hand on the cool surface of the book's face, to touch the tale he and so many others had lived in and to know that so many life-changing events rested at his fingertips was humbling. That he could look back on moments etched in black ink where he had not been present and literally read the thoughts of others was equally disheartening. Closing his eyes he could remember so many things, even those things he was not present for. He withdrew his hand.

"I don't feel like looking at it just yet…"

Sighing heavily, Autor returned the volume to the drawer and locked it again before moving to his closet without a word.

Fakir followed the other youth with his eyes, staying silent for a time before finally asking, "Have you read it?"

Autor paused for only a second as he opened his closet doors, but was quick to continue. "There was just one thing I truly wanted to know," he replied evenly as he pulled out various clothes.

Neither Fakir nor Duck knew of the pianist's encounter and infatuation with a certain ruby-eyed princess that had vanished as suddenly as she had appeared in his life, so both were curious as to what single thing Autor would take interest in. But the writer chose not to prod further as his cousin continued to lay out various clothes on the bed.

It was at this point that Duck seemed to realize that the boys would be changing in and out of various clothes, and adorning a lovely blush that neither Fakir nor Autor could see, she quietly left the room without their notice.

"I know that you look fine in blue, but since I'm going in my own blue suit, I felt that perhaps red or green would be better," Autor said without prompt.

Fakir quirked one eyebrow at his cousin's back. He had never really worn anything aside from blue or black since his childhood, and he had never worn red in his life. "I'm not sure I'll look decent in anything else…"

"You'll be fine," the pianist replied evenly, passing him a perfectly white button-up shirt. And with a sigh, Fakir took off his black vest and gloves.

Autor retrieved the green dress coat from where it lay on his bed and turned just as his cousin slipped out of his first shirt. But the musician instantly froze upon seeing the darker skin of the 'scar' that covered his cousin's back as he pulled on his second shirt.

"I didn't know…" Fakir looked up from the buttons of his shirt at the quiet whisper. He was surprised to find Autor's eyes lowered in bitter shame. "I didn't know that it went that deep."

And truly, for everything else he knew about the dancer, Autor had never known about the birthmark that recognized Fakir as the Heartless Prince's Knight. He had never known, but now that he saw it he could hardly imagine the weight his cousin must have carried. He had often resented Fakir in the fact that he had always had a role to play, a place meant just for him. But at that moment he realized that always knowing what awaited him, knowing his own death…

…That must have been more excruciating than anything he could possibly imagine.

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

Out in the hall, the little duck leaned back against the wall and released the breath she had been holding in a depressed sigh. Honestly, there was no point in being embarrassed. Animals didn't wear clothes, so their being without them or seeing others without them was rarely and issue. That was something humans worried about.

Getting up, she began to pace the hall, full of irritation at her pointless concerns about herself, her thoughts quickly turned to her human. He was so full of weary smiles and drained of spirit these days, she would have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know that something was wrong. But he hid behind his tired smiles and empty reassurances and would not speak of whatever it was that bothered him.

' _If I were a girl, he would tell me…'_ she thought dismally. No, that wasn't really true. Even when she was human, Fakir always kept to himself. _'No matter what I do…I can't help him…'_

Throughout her tumult of thoughts, Duck's pace had quickened and she had not been careful to watch where her feet took her as she reached the staircase. And with one slip on the wood of the top step, she was sent falling with a "QUACK!"

After enduring almost endless bouncing and bruising from the hard, carpeted wood, Duck hit the bottom step and came to the firm decision that Autor's house had far too many stairs. Rolling on to the floor with a groan, she decided to simply lay there and recover for a few minutes.

"What was that noise?" Mr. Stahlbaum's voice carried into the hall. Duck stiffened.

"I don't know…" Came Malen's meek reply, soon followed by approaching footsteps.

'Oh, no!' Duck scrambled to her feet, tripping over herself in her panic. 'Gotta hide! Gotta hide! Gotta hide!' Flapping her wings wildly, she dove through the open doors of the nearest room.

Once inside, she hid herself in the shadow of the door and prayed that she would not to be found. Fighting to hear over her pounding heart Duck listened as Malen paced the hall, pausing every now and again before finally returning to the parlor. Only once the artist's footsteps had faded did the bird release the breath she had been holding.

Coming out from behind the door, Duck sighed upon looking to the stairs. It would be a bit harder without Fakir to carry her, but she had to get back upstairs before someone saw her.

However, before she could move to leave, a sound caught her attention. It was soft, like the chime of a small bell. The first ring was soon followed by other sounds of metal meeting metal and Duck slowly turned around, her gaze was immediately drawn to the back of the only other person in the room.

A man stood high on a step ladder before the grand clock at the far end of the room, his shaggy white hair tied back and his simple trousers and shirt covered by a blue work apron—not unlike the sort that Charon wore when he worked—with large pockets that held small tools. So intent in his work on the clock's open face, he must not have heard her tumble down the stairs or noticed her enter the room.

However, before the bird could move to back out of the room, the man turned around to look right at her.

While Duck was certainly startled by the abrupt movement as well as his attention, she was amazed at the man's appearance. In spite of his aged hair, he barely looked out of his twenties. His skin was smooth and unmarred by wrinkles or scars of any kind. Although he did have a big black patch of cloth where his right eye should have been, it didn't make him look all that repulsive. Overall, he was not incredibly handsome—certainly not like Fakir—but Duck did not find him wholly unattractive either.

"Hello, there," the stranger's face lit up with a smile as he hopped down from his ladder. "And what are you doing here?"

As he came nearer, Duck was at last spurred into dashing away to hide under a nearby table. Pressed back against the wall, she watched the man's feet as he followed and finally knelt down to smile at her.

"Do not be afraid, little one," he said kindly. "I mean you no harm. But you should not be seen wandering about." He chuckled. "We wouldn't want you being mistaken for Christmas dinner."

His voice was deep, like a church bell, but held warmth like a thick quilt. Humored by his last remark and compelled by his gentle smile, Duck slowly came forward and allowed him to pick her up.

"There, now…" He sat her down atop the table, in a small spot unoccupied by his tools or the various springs and cogs of the clock. "You may sit here, until your boy comes to get you."

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

"Fakir, I heard some…disturbing news yesterday," Autor said as he helped his darker-haired cousin into the dark green coat. The dancer _hm_ 'd his slight interest as he moved his arms around in the coat sleeves. "The owner of the bookstore was found dead yesterday."

Fakir felt his blood freeze in his veins. "Dead?! How?! When?!"

"I don't know. He didn't open up the store yesterday morning," the pianist replied, "and when people started to get concerned, someone found a way inside. Apparently, the entire building was a mess and he was found dead in a back room."

The emerald-eyed youth turned to face the bespectacled musician. "What do you think?" 

Autor crossed his arms and glanced around carefully. "It could have been any number of things," he replied. "Natural causes are likely, the man was very old." Fakir's eyes narrowed dangerously and the music student continued. "…But even if it's not, it's probably something we'd do well to avoid. Don't forget, they already have reason to want your head."

Fakir had not forgotten. But he could hardly believe it. The leader of the Book Men, the decrepit old man who had come within inches of taking the boy's hands as well as his life, was no longer a part of this world. He wondered if he should have felt relieved, but all he felt was dread.

Something could happen. Something was going to happen. In the depths of his heart, Fakir was certain of this much.

And it was then that the writer noticed a certain lack of yellow about the room. "Where's Duck?"

Autor blinked, looking about his room. "Uh…"

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

Duck did not really know much about clocks, but it was obvious that this man was clearly a master in his line of work. He was careful as he poked about, removing and replacing various wheels and springs with all the care of a loving parent for an ill child. Every now and again, she couldn't help wincing in pain when he would stick sharp-looking metal wire into the clock, but was surprised when the clock seemed somehow brighter because of it. And all the while, he spoke to her, showing her each piece and explaining what it was supposed to do.

"…And each piece has its own purpose," he said as he finished cleaning another wheel and moved to return it to the clock. "No matter how similar they may look, or how small it is, they can never do the same thing as another, nor could the clock ever function without it. That's how the mechanism works and it cannot be changed."

Duck nodded, though surprised that the man had not reacted in astonishment at her ability to understand him as well as respond.

Their attention was abruptly turned to the open doors at the sound of hurried footsteps thundering down the stairs, and the two saw Fakir trip on the bottom step. The youth was quick to catch himself before he could fall and looked about the hall frantically, the green velvet jacket he still wore shimmering in the afternoon light.

'Fakir!' Duck quacked, flapping her wings. 'Fakir, I'm over here!'

The dancer and writer was instantly in the doorway at her call, and relieved at having found her, his entire body relaxed with a sigh. "There you are!"

However, Fakir stopped just short of crossing the room upon noticing the clockmaker as he smiled at him. Duck assumed the boy was as surprised by his youthful appearance as she had been, though he seemed much more wary about him than even she had been. All the same, as he saw the man did not move as he cleaned his hands and stood back with a slight bow, the boy made his way to the water fowl sitting on the table.

Taking his bird into his arms, Fakir looked her in her eyes crossly. "Duck, don't wander off like that again…"

"'Duck'?" The man chuckled, making the youth stiffen at his deep voice and one-eyed gaze. "Not the most original of names, to be sure, but I suppose simple is sometimes best."

Fakir blinked at the man's obvious humor, and while still feeling very uneasy being in such close proximity to him, the boy managed a calming breath. He had taken care of Duck, and thus deserved some consideration. "Thank you for looking after her…"

The clockmaker's smiled broadened and he reached out to pat Duck's head gently. "She took a bit of a tumble, but she seems okay," he said. He suddenly raised his hand from the bird to Fakir. "My name is Christian, by the way."

"Fakir…" The youth replied, declining the offered hand with a cool glance.

The man named Christian smiled, his expression not faltering in the slightest as he let his hand drop. If anything, his single cherry-wood colored orb glittered brighter with amusement. "Fakir: While derived from the Arabic word for 'poverty', a _Fakir_ is a magician or holy man capable of incredible feats of endurance, such as walking on burning coals or going for days without eating."

The young writer blinked with wide green eyes, the duck in his arms mimicking the act with the tilt of her head. "Where did you learn that?" He asked.

"From my travels," Christian replied simply. Taking a tool from the table, he returned to his work.

Fakir looked at the tall clock as the man worked. Christian was at least a head taller than the boy was, but the clock reached all the way up to the ceiling. The entire thing was made of polished, black wood edged with gold paint. While the clock face was open, he could see that the circle was surrounded by the image of a white cloud and just above that was the image of a full moon smiling from a blue sky surrounded by stars. Taking note of the big gilded owl that was carved to perch on top of it with outspread wings, he felt almost like he was being observed by it. He quickly cast his eyes downward and saw a small pair of doors just beneath the clock face but above the pendulum.

"It's…a wonderful clock," Fakir said, though the word didn't seem very adequate. In all honesty, he had never seen such an amazing clock before. Just looking at it, he couldn't help but feel something special about it. "How long have you been working on it?"

"Since yesterday afternoon," came the sour reply from the doorway, where Autor stood leaning against the doorframe. "Apparently, he showed up on our doorstep before I came home from school yesterday and offered to repair the clock." The pianist gave a light snort.

"You do not sound confidant in my skill, young sir," Christian smiled at the boy from atop the ladder.

Autor crossed his arms over his front, partly out of habit, but mostly out of discomfort upon finding himself the subject of the man's attention. It made him feel oddly prickly. "That clock has been broken since my Father was my age. My Grandfather called dozens upon dozens of clockmakers, the best around to try their hand. It all came to nothing."

At this, Christian laughed. "All those louts did was make a mess of things. But…" He withdrew his hand from the inside of the clock and closed the face. "…That ought to do it."

"You mean to tell me that you've managed to repair a clock that's been broken for decades in less than two days?" Autor groused as he straightened to his full height. "Don't be ridiculous."

The clockmaker gave the youth no attention as he retrieved a brass key from one of the pockets of his work apron, and putting it through the two holes on the clock face he began to wind it. Interested, although Autor would never admit to it, the two boys and Duck watched until the key was wound as tightly as it would go and Christian moved both the hands to **XII** before stepping aside to allow them to see.

Music and bells began to play as the sun, moon and stars atop the face began to move. Fakir stepped back with a small smile, while Autor took an astonished step forward, both wide-eyed. They watched as the doors slowly opened to reveal wooden figurines about the size of their hands moving inside. On a river, a hooded and cloaked man slowly rowed his boat from one end to the other with a single passenger. To the right, the shore was covered in blue bells and white trees where men and women wearing long dresses and plumed hats could be seen strolling about at the base of a black castle with shining windows and towers.

'Wow!' Duck gaped. 'That's so cool!'

"Amazing!" Fakir stared, trying to take it all in. "I've never seen anything like it!"

Christian chuckled. "I would expect not. It's very old." He straightened as the small doors closed and the music came to an end. "Look up at the top. We'll see if it works…"

The boys and their duck followed his gaze to the sun, moon and stars, they watched as two figurines rose up. One was a man with silver hair, his black clothes adorned in jewels that glittered in the lamp light. The second, was a beautiful woman with long red hair braided with flowers clad all in white.

'Pretty…!'

"Would you like a closer look?" Christian offered, dropping down a step to allow Fakir up. He was quickly joined by Autor, who was trying to ignore the clockmaker's pleased smile as he balanced on the ladder alongside his cousin.

Fakir's attention, however, was focused on the pair before him and their clear longing for one another. "They're in love…"

Christian nodded. "Very much. But they're of very different worlds. He is the King of the Dead, and she the Lady of Spring. They are only allowed to see each other during the latter half of the day when the clock strikes the hour."

Fakir watched as the figures drew away from view with a familiar ache of loss. But looking back at the clockmaker and seeing the soft love on his face, Fakir again felt that peculiar feeling of something new but somehow ancient. Yet again, he could not place how it was familiar…

"Well! I'm certain the master of the house will be thrilled to see this!" Christian jumped down from the ladder, wiping off his hands with a cloth as he headed for the door. "If you'll excuse me…"

Fakir and Autor watched him go, waiting a moment longer before stepping down to the floor. "It's a wonderful clock," the writer said again.

"But it doesn't make sense!" Autor snapped. "There's no possible way he could fix the damage of three decades in…" He checked his watch, "twenty-eight hours! It just can't be done!"

'Maybe he's just really good,' Duck said, though neither boy was aware of it.

"Maybe he just knew what he was doing," Fakir shrugged.

If anything, this just frustrated Autor further. "This clock is older than my grandfather's grandfather, Fakir. No one's been able to fix it because no one knows how it works."

'Well, Mister Christian did,' Duck offered with a shrug.

Mr. Stahlbaum was beyond thrilled when he saw the clock sing and its figurines dance. His entire face lit up like the sun with his smile, filling the entire room with his joy. When the song came to an end and the King and his Lady drew back, the man approached the clock and touched its wood as though he were seeing an old friend he had not met in many years.

"It…It's incredible! Amazing! _Brilliant!_ How did you do it?"

Christian pulled on his coat with smile and a shrug. "I manage."

Fakir and Autor had taken position at the far end of the room—Duck hidden beneath the table—and watched as the man gathered his things to leave. Now out of his work apron, he wore a yellow coat over a another longer, dark blue coat—making it almost look like yellow wings draped over the longer coattails of blue—and was pulling on his dark brown leather gloves. His black hat rested on the table beside the leather bag which held all of his tools. Overall, he looked more imposing than before.

"You must allow me to thank you properly," Mr. Stahlbaum said. "Tonight we're hosting our yearly Christmas party. You must come."

"Papa!" Malen gasped. Fakir noticed the slightest flinch from Autor, though it was not from his usual distaste.

"It has been…quite a while since I last attended a formal party, sir," Christian said. "I am ill prepared for such a gathering."

"Come as you are if you so choose," the musician replied without missing a beat. Fakir was reminded of a similar scene that had played out in his own home one day prior and almost smirked. "Please. I insist on being satisfied."

The clockmaker sighed helplessly. "If you insist upon it, sir."

Taking up his bag and hat, Christian made his way toward the door. When he stopped and turned back to Fakir and Autor, and the boys went rigid under his attention. The clockmaker, however, only smiled, his one eye seeming to glow with mirth at the sight of them. Like he knew something they did not.

Then, without a word, he turned and left.

Releasing a breath neither boy had been aware of holding, they looked to each other for some sort of answer to what the peculiar man seemed to know. Neither one found they could answer.

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

The entire house was lit up with the warmth and sound of celebration. The big tree in the middle of the room gleamed with china roses, sparkled with crystal swans, foil-wrapped sugar-plums bobbed and twinkled, and miniature brass trumpets winked brightly in the candlelight. People clustered together in happy conversation, exchanging gifts and happy wishes.

It was very much like the scene at school the day before. And just like at school, Fakir found himself in complete disinterest. Standing by one of the parlor windows with Duck, he sipped a glass of sparkling cider in boredom. This party wasn't worth the time to attend. He was indeed a subject of much attention from the ladies of the party, clad in the red jacket with white trimming Autor had offered, but he found the party was hardly worth the time to attend.

He saw several teachers from the Academy, and several others he did not recognize. He was mildly surprised to see Malen huddled together with some her own age—some fellow students, he supposed—talking and laughing avidly. Her father was in a similar countenance as he sat at the piano, playing the occasional song at someone's request. He saw Autor standing by the fireplace.

Duck nudged his hand, drawing his attention and smile back. While she was staying out of the way of the people, she wore a small, red ribbon trimmed with lace around her neck that allowed her some holiday dress. He tore off pieces of cinnamon bread and offered them to his bird with a smile. He was certain Duck was enjoying the light and music, as well as the change of scenery from their home, but he could still see that touch of sadness in her big blue eyes. She couldn't enjoy the party to its fullest. It wasn't really in his character to join such revelry, but he had decided against making her feel worse by doing so all the same.

Although he was sure he had already made her feel worse just by bringing her here.

Autor, meanwhile, was being as careful as his cousin to avoid interacting with anyone else in the room. His attention was on the lone white figure set to guard the mantel as he did every year. The figurine was an angel. A boy with gold hair glistening like sunshine and emerald eyes shining beautifully in the lamplight. Autor had been told that he was part of a set of twelve, though he had never seen the other eleven, nor did he know what became of them. The lonely angel had been a constant comfort every winter for his entire life. Even when all other things changed for the worst.

It was then that the bell rang. It had chimed several times that night to announce guests to the party, to the point it had almost become a part of the music and conversation. But this time, both boys' attention was held to the doors of the parlor. They weren't sure how they knew it was him, but they knew.

Entering the parlor, Christian greeted the room full of complete strangers with a smile. "Merry Christmas to all here!"

His greeting was returned by most in the room, though everyone was in confusion about his presence and appearance. His shaggy white hair was tied back in a ponytail with a black ribbon, though much of it still fell into his face. A rich green vest covered a pure white shirt, though the flowing lace at the cuffs almost concealed his gloved hands that held a large leather suitcase.

His single eye landed on the two boys—Fakir still by the window and Autor by the fireplace—and his smile once again broadened with knowing. Fakir still felt an odd prickle at the sight of the man, but decided then and there that if he continued to look at him that way he would hit him.

Christian moved amongst the party, eating and drinking amiably with the other guests for but a few minutes before he took a place at the table and lifted his bag up on to the table. Undoing the buckles, he opened the leather case and reaching inside he drew out a small red box with a lever. This, he handed to a small boy nearby.

The boy looked confused, but accepted the box all the same. At the clockmaker's behest he began to turn the lever on the side, making music play from within. The boy's smile grew as he continued to summon music from the small box, when all of a sudden a little blue bird hopped out with a 'cuckoo!' and then disappeared again. His smile dared to split his face in two as he laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

The clockmaker reached into his bag again, this time drawing out what looked like a little flower pot with a tall flower, its petals closed. This, Christian offered to a little, four year-old girl standing close to his chair. She found the small silver key on the side and turned it, making the flower open its pink petals, revealing the purple butterfly lightly fluttering its wings within.

Christian continued to reach into his bag and draw out various toys for the boys and girls, stirring their joy excitement, filling the parlor with golden laughter. A blue box with the moon hanging inside, smiling back at you. A small chestnut horse with a rider, his right arm moving in a circle. A little man who could roll his eyes and bow in a comical way. Always something else that never failed to please whomever he gave it to. Until at last, only one remained.

It was the size of an ostrich egg, and looked like and unopened flower with a silver, heart-shaped key protruding from one side. This one, he handled with great care as he stood and walked to the piano where Mr. Stahlbaum stood with Malen. With a bow to the young lady, he set it down and began to wind the key. Everyone gathered around the piano as Christian tightened the key, not saying anything for a long moment before finally stepping back.

Seconds went by, the sound of ticking and clockwork filling the silence of the room.

And then it began to move. The flower opened, its petals unfurling to form the skirt of small doll that stood up and began to dance along the smooth, black surface of the piano.

"Amazing!"

"Beautiful!"

"How wonderful!"

People breathed praise upon praise at the little doll as it continued to dance about and pirouette in graceful little circles. It finally sat down and returned to the flower from which it had emerged as it wound down. Picking it up with care, Christian turned to Malen and held it out in offering.

Needless to say, the girl was stunned. "F-For…For _me_?"

"But of course," the man laughed at her astonished face.

"N-No, I… I-I couldn't possibly…!" Malen looked from Christian to the doll, hiding within the flower as it rested in his hands and back again. From the man's pleased countenance at her response to the doll, it was obvious he would stand before her all night until she finally took it. And she could not deny that she really, truly wanted it.

With as much care as he had shown, she took the flower in her hands. "Thank you…"

Fakir and Autor had been unable to help themselves upon seeing Malen's doll, and were embarrassed to find they had moved into the circle of people surrounding the piano. The young artist stood close to her brother with a bright smile as she held the flower to her heart.

Christian gave a deep bow at her acceptance of his gift before spinning about on his heel to face Mr. Stahlbaum himself. "I heard you playing as I entered. You are, indeed, a master of your work."

"As are you," the pianist smiled, almost helplessly at what he had just seen.

"Perhaps, you would be so kind as to play a song with me?"

"But of course," Mr. Stahlbaum echoed the clockmaker's earlier words. "What will it be?"

Christian paged through the sheet music until he found the one he wanted and laid it before the musician. The melody that was summoned at the man's hands was a familiar one, but this was played with more reverence than most others had. The song reached everywhere across the room and all other conversation was silenced. And then, Christian began to sing…

" _Angels we have heard on high_

 _Singing sweetly through the plains_

 _And the mountains in reply_

 _Echoing their joyous strains…"_

Autor found he could not conceal his attention behind a mask of indifference at the sound of the man's deep voice moving in harmony with his father playing.

 _"Gloria… in Excelsis Deo_

 _Gloria…in Excelsis Deo…"_

His voice summoned the calm serenity of new snow, lying untouched across an open field in the boys' thoughts. The golden candlelight and burning fire went out, leaving only the deep blue sky and white snowflakes falling outside the windows to cast shadows upon the floor.

" _Come to Bethlehem and see_

 _The Child whose birth the Angels sing_

 _Come adore on bended knee_

 _Christ the Lord and new born King…"_

Fakir could make out Christian's shape in the light shining through the parlor windows, but no one else's. Not Mr. Stahlbaum or Malen. Not Autor, who should have been but a few feet from him. Not even Duck. He couldn't even look anywhere else in the room except at the man before him and listened as the clockmaker's voice echoed through the room, coming back on itself with the music. It almost sounded like more than once voice.

" _Gloria… in Excelsis Deo_

 _Gloria…in Excelsis Deo…"_

"… _In Excelsis Deo…"_

It wasn't just Christian's voice. There were others echoing his words.

" _See him in a manger laid_ _  
_ _Whom the choirs of angels sing_ _  
_ _Mary, Joseph, lend your aid_ _  
_ _While our hearts in love we raise…"_

Dozens of voices had joined the clockmaker's song. Neither youth could see them in the blue-darkness, but they could feel their voices in their bones. Voices that they knew as well as their own, though neither had ever heard them before.

" _Gloria… in Excelsis Deo_

 _Gloria…in Excelsis Deo…"_

Fakir knew what those words meant. _"Glory to God in the highest."_ He could remember his mother holding him in her arms, years before he learned how to write, and telling him that. But the countless unseen men singing all around him seemed to reach further back than even his earliest memories.

" _Gloria. Gloria._

 _Gloria in Excelsis Deo_

 _In…Excelsis Deo…"_

Autor felt his heart pound within his chest. It wasn't just that he recognized the song, or that he had known how to play it on the piano since he was nine years old. There was something about it he knew from long ago. Something from long before _she_ had left. Long, long before.

" _Gloria. Gloria._

 _Gloria in Excelsis Deo_

 _In Excelsis Deo…"_

They blinked and instantly found the lamps and hearth burning bright and filled the parlor with warm, golden light. As if they had never been out.

" _In Excelsis Deo…"_

The voices faded with Christian's as the music came to an end.

The entire house seemed to shake as the parlor erupted in avid applause with the last note, snapping the two boys from the spell of the song. Christian bowed to his audience, as well as to Autor's father who was quick to shake the clockmaker's hand in swift appreciation of his voice.

"Autor!" Malen took her brother's arm, making him jump at the unexpected contact. "Where- _When_ on Earth did you learn to sing like that?"

The musician stared, aghast at her question. "Wh-What do you mean? When did _I_ sing?"

"Just now," the young woman smiled. "You and Fakir both sang with Mister Christian. It was beautiful! Like the voices of angels!"

The two boys in question looked to each other in total bafflement. Them? Sing? It wasn't possible. But everyone praised their apparently wonderful singing, clapping them on their shoulders, shaking their hands and applauding in admiration. Even Duck beat her wings in adulation.

Looking to Christian as he spoke with Mr. Stahlbaum, Fakir was immediately unsettled when the clockmaker didn't even pause in his conversation as he looked right at him. He did not wear that knowing smirk that had irritated the young man, but rather a fond smile of honest approval.

Fakir again felt something like an itch in the back of his brain, like a dream that was trying to be remembered after years of disregard. Like when Duck had stirred the memory of his parents' deaths that day in the stable. And just like that day, he was afraid to touch upon it.

Hurrying across the room, Fakir took Duck into his arms and dashed out into the hall. The small water fowl was startled by his unexpected embrace and rush to leave, but seeing his apparent desire to escape, she held onto him as he went to retrieve his cloak from the closet.

It wasn't until Fakir had taken his winter cloak from the hook it had been placed that he noticed Autor had followed him in silence. From the shaken look on the musician's face, he could see that his cousin may have felt something similar to his own unease at the one-eyed man's glance.

"It's getting late…and the snow has been coming down rather hard," Fakir sighed as he donned his cloak, revived somewhat from its weight on his shoulders. "Duck and I should head home before it gets too thick. I'll bring your clothes back…another time."

"That's fine," Autor replied, trying not to think about the odd sensation of nostalgia pressing upon his thoughts. He could ignore it. He could think about it later. But he needed to clear his head of this anxiety before anything else. "I'll…walk you some of the way."

Walking to the door, both boys were shocked upon drawing the barrier aside. It had been too long since Fakir had looked out the window to check on the weather. In the time since Christian's arrival, his passing out of gifts and the unearthly song, the snow had become heavier and fell to bring the level of what had already fallen to the ground up past Fakir's knees.

Fakir was speechless at the obstacle before him. Having walked, he was bound for trouble if he were to venture out this late at night. What was worse, the snow only seemed to be coming down even harder as he stood there. While not wholly concerned for his own welfare, he knew Duck would not be able to brave the freezing weather without getting sick.

"Don't worry," Autor said with more ease and assurance than Fakir felt. "Anyone to come by carriage should have little problem getting to their own homes. You can arrange something with my father."

In spite of their desire to do otherwise, the two boys returned to the parlor to speak with Mr. Stahlbaum. Fakir was confused and somewhat irritated, however, when Autor stood back to let him speak to the older pianist. From how the bespectacled youth leaned back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, Fakir knew very well that any attempts to sway his decision would be met with a stubborn resolve.

"Jackass," Fakir muttered as he left his cousin by the door.

Mr. Stahlbaum listened intently to the boy's plight and was quick to offer assistance, though not as Fakir would have liked.

"You can stay the night," Mr. Stahlbaum offered. "It won't do to have you getting hurt or falling ill on account of inhospitality." Before the boy could refuse, the musician clapped his shoulder confidently. "Don't worry. I am always willing to put up any of my friends. I've already offered Mister Christian a place to stay the night as well. We can call a carriage for you both in the morning."

Fakir wanted to object, the thought of spending much more time under the same roof as the peculiar clockmaker hardly reassured him. But as desperately as he wished to escape, the small duck hidden in his arms was a gentle reminder of who really mattered. Her comfort and her safety would always come before his own.

"That would be…very kind, thank you," Fakir sighed.

"Great!" Mr. Stahlbaum smiled brightly, clapping him on the shoulder again. "I'll have a room prepared—"

"Actually," Fakir spoke quickly, "I would rather stay…in Autor's room. I would rather not put you through any more trouble."

Perhaps it was part of what remained of his training as a Knight, or maybe simple agitation from the events of the day, but if nothing else, Fakir didn't want to feel completely vulnerable. Some sort of control, some sort of grounding would help keep him stay focused and alert.

Fakir knew the man would try to convince him to do otherwise, however, before he could open his mouth to insist, a shrill scream and the shattering of glass stilled the merry music to complete silence. Everyone looked toward the noise in the hall, and it was Mr. Stahlbaum himself that dashed out to investigate. He was soon followed by Autor, who cast a glance back to Fakir as he disappeared out into the hall.

Before the emerald-eyed youth could follow, he was startled when none other than Christian stepped past him. There was no hurry in the man's step, nor any severe panic or urgency. However, Fakir could feel that the clockmaker's earlier fun throughout the party had vanished.

Fakir snapped out of his reverie when Christian turned to look back at him. "Coming, young lord?"

The writer blinked at the unfamiliar title to his person, as well as the man's clear gaze before he continued out the door. Fakir quickly followed after the previous three as the other guests moved to gather around the entrance and found Autor, his father and Christian at the base of the stairs.

A young maid appeared to have fallen, breaking all of the dishes she had been carrying to the various shards that lay on the floor all around her. Crying into the handkerchief Mr. Stahlbaum had given her, she appeared absolutely mortified.

"Now," the elder musician said kindly, "tell us what happened."

The young lady took a deep shuddering breath. "I-I saw… A big mouse ran j-just in front of my foot…" She replied. "I-I reacted and-and…" She choked and began sobbing again into the soft handkerchief.

Mr. Stahlbaum pat her shoulder comfortingly. "There, there now…"

All the while, Fakir saw Christian carefully poking about the bits of broken glass. When he seemed to grow uninterested doing that, he stepped past the mess to stand by the nearby wall. Putting his ear to the smooth surface of the wall, he waited and listened.

For what, Fakir had no idea.

"Please forgive me, Sir!" The girl begged. "I'll replace the dishes myself! I'll—"

"Don't worry yourself sick over it, child," the man smiled. "Go find a broom and clean up the glass. I'll have someone set out some traps later, alright?"

The young woman nodded before picking herself up and hurrying away to carry out her task. At the same time, Christian stepped away from the wall and turned to Autor's father with smile.

" _Herr_ Stahlbaum, I believe I shall accept your offer to stay the night."

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

"As a guest, you are obligated to accept. I shall sleep on the floor," Autor said again.

And yet again, Fakir felt the need to grouse. "As a guest, I'm not about to overstep my boundaries. I'll take the floor, and you keep the bed."

When Fakir had declined the offer of a guest room to instead share Autor's room, he had not thought about how awkward it would make things.

Autor had heard the rumors about his cousin and his princely roommate Mytho. Rumors about their relationship. Admittedly, the music student paid little attention to such gossip, but having seen them interact a few times at school he could not simply pass Fakir's attitude toward the Prince to be that of an overprotective Knight safeguarding his royal charge.

As the two boys glared at each other over the canopied piece of furniture, it became obvious that both would end up sleeping on the floor if this carried on much longer. So it was at that moment that Duck hopped onto the bed and tugged on the hem of Fakir's shirt with a "Qua-quack."

"There," Autor said. " _She_ has agreed to the bed."

He found he spoke too soon, however, when the little duck waddled across the covers to tug on his shirt as well. After which, she hopped onto the pillows and plopped herself comfortably down. After a moment, when neither boy had moved, she patted the pillows with her wings.

'Well, come on,' she seemed to say.

Autor had to wonder if Duck had been at all aware of the issues surrounding the Prince and the relationship he shared with his Knight while she had attended school. Then again, perhaps she knew and simply didn't care. Animals were strange.

Then again, so was Fakir. His affections had easily transferred from a beautiful boy to an awkward duck-girl. But even so…

The look Duck was giving him, her blue eyes set and waiting for him to do as she bid him, made the boy heave a sigh. "Alright, alright. Fine."

Giving Fakir the same look, both boys warily drew back the covers. Taking off his glasses, Autor turned out the lamp, leaving the fire in the hearth to grant some light, and settled his head down on his pillow. Duck moved with Fakir as he shifted and turned about, until at last all three were comfortable.

Gazing into the shadows playing across the wall, the only sounds being their quiet breathing and the 'tick-tick-tick' of the clock on Autor's desk, Fakir found nothing to quiet his mind. Dozens of thoughts filled his head, flashing before his eyes in an erratic order that made no sense.

Minutes slowly passed into the silence of the room, swallowed up by the night. The dancer closed his eyes against the light and shadow dancing against the wall in another attempt to sleep. He was certain Duck and Autor had fallen asleep by now.

"Fakir?"

His emerald eyes did not open at his cousin's voice. "What?"

"Is Duck awake?"

When the little bird did not move at her name, Fakir could safely assume that she had fallen asleep by his leg. "No."

Autor was silent a moment longer before his voice once again reached out of the dark. "When did you realize that you couldn't keep her? As a human, I mean?"

"You haven't read about it?" The writer asked, the barest hint of spite in his tone.

"No," his cousin replied. "I wanted to ask you directly."

Fakir sighed. "She was never mine to keep in the first place. Drosselmeier told me himself that Duck was only able to become human because her pendant was one of the pieces of the Prince's heart." He had already told this to Autor years ago. "And it's not as though I've really lost her…"

"When you had to say good-bye to the human girl…how did it feel?"

"Is this going somewhere, Autor?" Fakir spoke quietly, but with a snap.

And again, his cousin was silent for a moment. "There was someone, a girl that left when the story ended. And I…I didn't know her for very long at all, and I've had people leave me before, so this shouldn't make me feel any different. But…it does."

Fakir stared at the wall, considering this odd confession from his otherwise self-reliant acquaintance. Before today, Fakir hadn't even known that Autor had a sister much less that he apparently had feelings for some girl. But that his cousin would in some peculiar way ask for help to cope with feelings that must have been plaguing him for the last two years had to be hard for him.

"It's always complicated when someone leaves," Fakir sighed. "Family, friends, lovers… I think that sort of feeling is never the same way twice, because you never feel the same way about two people. That you feel differently about this girl than you do about someone you might simply pass in the hall is because she was special to you somehow."

Autor sighed. "I am to assume that Princess TuTu was no more or less special than the Prince, then?"

Fakir stiffened, but bit his lip before a scathing snap could escape and possibly wake Duck. "What do you mean by that?" He asked slowly.

"When the Prince was with you all those years, you decided that he was better off without a heart," the musical youth said, feeling his cousin tense. "And now that you have Princess TuTu, you've decided that she is better off not being human. From the way I look at it, it shows the exact same sort of fancy for both."

Autor could feel Fakir's anger burning as he lay some ways away, and fully expecting his cousin to hit him, he tensed.

Fakir surprised him yet again when he heaved a deep, calming sigh and turned to lay on his back. "She's different from Mytho," he said finally. "So of course I feel differently about her than I did about him. And it's not as is we made the decision out of convenience. It had to be done. In the end, we both chose to let him and Princess TuTu go. We both chose to say good-bye…"

"There was no way either of us could have known that she would become trapped between her two selves," he went on quietly, sadly. Staring up at the canopy overhead, not really seeing the pattern of the fabric, Fakir felt a deep pain in his heart. "And I know she wants to be free more than anything. But…I won't hurt her in order to achieve that. Her feelings, her happiness matter more to me than anything. Her heart is far more precious than mine could ever be."

Turning on his side, Autor closed his eyes. "Good night, Fakir."

"Good night, Autor…"

 **XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI XI**

Duck could not sleep.

It wasn't just that it was cold, the fire having burned low in the hearth. It wasn't just that the room was unfamiliar, a heavy canopy hanging about the bed from the room's high ceiling—Fakir's room was much smaller and the covers of his bed smelled much more like home.

She had heard the boys talking when they had thought her asleep.

Now she knew the truth. For weeks she had wondered and worried over his false smiles and empty reassurances, and now she knew how Fakir really felt.

'He's wrong,' she decided as she stood by his shoulder and watched him breathe softly in his sleep. Fakir deserved to be at ease and not have to trouble himself over her sadness, not when it caused him so much more. A human heart was precious and at the same time fragile beyond compare. Her sadness didn't matter nearly so much as his.

But…he felt that her feelings were more important than his own. So her feeling that his feelings were more important than her feelings…

Duck decided to stop thinking for now. Questions and problems that came in those weird circles only served to give her headaches. She needed something to quiet the tumult of her thoughts.

She wanted to see the clock again. The music and the figures within would be a pleasant relief to the tension she had endured until the boys had at last fallen asleep. Looking at the domed clock on Autor's desk, she knew it was likely to strike the hour in a few minutes.

Hopping down from the bed, careful to avoid stepping on Fakir or making any noise, Duck walked to the door. Luckily for her, the handle to Autor's door was a long metal lever rather than a knob. It wasn't impossible, though it took her two or three good jumps before she could reach it and quietly swung the door open just far enough to slip out into the hall.

It was a little scary to walk down the spacious the hall at night. It was worse that she could see it was still snowing outside past the curtain, thus extinguishing any moonlight that might help her to see. But going slowly, feeling out in front of her as she went, she soon came to the top of the stairs.

Duck was suddenly terrified as she looked down. The stairs disappeared into the shadows, making it look like a big, bottomless hole. But taking a deep breath and gathering her courage, the little duck hopped down from one step to the next. 'I'm not scared. I'm not scared. It's dark, but I'm not scared.'

She was almost surprised when she finally touched the bottom floor. After her fall earlier that day, she was certain it would have taken much longer. But happy to be on the firm ground again all the same, Duck walked to the partially open doors of the living room.

The curtains were open, allowing the faint light from the street lamps outside to reach in and cast shadows on the floor beneath the windows. The snow was falling soft and silent outside the glass, hiding the street and buildings from sight.

The ticking of the recently healed clock was an odd comfort from the heavy silence that held the sleeping house. But underneath the 'tick-tock' that seemed to echo throughout the room, there was also the sound of all the gears and cogs moving as they should beneath the wood surface. It was almost like a steady heartbeat she had listened to one summer day long ago.

As she slowly stepped inside, she felt a peculiar sort of vertigo as the entire room seemed to shrink, yet somehow grow larger at the same time. The shadows on the floor seemed to stretch and bend as the room shifted and curved before her very eyes.

Heart pounding in her chest, Duck slowly stepped across the room with a shuddering breath. She saw something move out of the corner of her eye and she looked up with a start.

It was a girl. She wasn't wearing any clothes, instead her red-gold hair covered her milk-white skin all the way down past her knees like a shawl. But her eyes…big blue eyes with long black lashes set within a freckled face were the very same eyes that looked back at her from every mirror or reflection on the water of the lake.

It _was_ her reflection.

The girl looking back at her from the glass-fronted china cabinet was the very one she had let go what seemed a lifetime ago. It was _her_. Duck the _girl_.

Tears blurred her vision, but only slightly. Nothing could block the image of her human self from her eyes, not even when she gave in to the need to blink and sent her tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. It had been so long since she had dreamed of her brief humanity, but even then it had always memories, happy moments with Lilie and Pique as they warming up at the beginning of class, walking down the street with Uzura as she beat on her little drum, those short-lived hours she had talked with Rue or Mytho as friends instead of foes, and the time she was able to spend with Fakir as they studied in the library. But then she would remember that the story had ended and it would all fade away into morning.

She knew that Drosselmeier's story had ended. She could easily recall waking up that winter morning as a duck. But the sight of her human reflection did not weaken in the shadows of nighttime. With a trembling hand, she reached out to touch the cold glass of the cabinet, only to stop and stare at her fingers. The narrow fingers of girl, and the small hands they rested upon.

Unable to help it, in spite of her tears, Duck felt a smile dare to split her face in two as she clenched and unclenched her hands. She ran one hand through her hair, her fingers catching on the soft, red-gold curls. Her gaze shot down the smooth skin of her arms, down her front all the way to her bare feet.

She couldn't speak from the joy she felt flood her whole being, more tears flowing down her face like a wonderful rain as she stood in astonishment and awe of the miracle surrounding her. How did it happen? Who had made it happen? Fakir?

'Fakir!' She had to hurry back upstairs and show him.

But as she turned toward the doors, a sudden noise made her freeze.

The scratching of nails against wood. The crumbling of plaster as it hit the floorboards.

All at once the shadows grew deeper. They swallowed up what little light cast through the windows, throwing her into the darkness of night without the faintest glow of the moon or stars.

Something was moving, something was skulking in the blackness of the room. She could feel it. Her hair stood on end and goose pimples rose up on every inch of her human skin. But try as she might, she could make out no shape in the gloom.

A sudden spark in the darkness caught her eye.

There. Something glowing, like the last embers in the ashes of the fireplace. Duck watched as the little lights were joined by others. No. Not lights and not embers. They were little sparkling eyes. None of them seemed to see her, instead looking to each other as they clustered together in the dark corner.

Then she heard raspy giggling and hissing whispers fill the shadows. She had no idea what they were saying, there were too many voices and they were saying too many things at one time, but the voices were scratchy and unpleasant. The sound seemed to grind against her nerves until it actually hurt to listen.

Covering her ears did nothing to dull the voices and the throbbing in her head was getting worse. Where she had moments ago cried tears of joy, tears of pain burned her eyes and she quickly shut them to hide. Stepping back, she felt the wall against her bare back and slid down to the floor with a weak whimper.

The whispers ceased.

Duck was overjoyed with the silence, the release from the pain. But upon opening her eyes, she immediately wished she had left them closed against the horrifying sight now centimeters from where she sat.

She could make out no details of the thing standing in the murky shadows, even as it towered over her all she could see was a large, amorphous thing draped in a black cloak. But the eyes that glowed like hot coals that she had before thought to belong to multiple figures now peeked out from beneath the black cloth. All of those eyes belonged to this one creature. And as it loomed closer, Duck could almost see her reflection in those horrible glowing orbs.

Her first animal instinct to preserve her simple little life demanded that she scream, jump up and run away with all the speed her now human legs would give her. Her heart hammered in her breast with the need to escape. She opened her mouth to call out—

"Clara."

That word, that one scratchy whisper of two syllables again invoked the pain and terror she had not yet overcome from seconds ago. It was enough to hold her frozen in place, no matter how much she wanted to flee. She watched as a thin, bone-white hand slid out from under the black cloak and long fingers flexed in the cool air. The appendage seemed to exude a bitter cold, rather than the comforting warmth that she wanted, and she felt her heart pound hard against her ribcage as it reached for her.

Closer. Closer. Closer….

'Click.'

The small noise was the only warning the clock gave before the music began to play and the bells began to ring upon the stroke of midnight.

The creature immediately recoiled, drawing back into the shadows with a hissing shriek. The act and the noise made Duck close her eyes so tightly she saw lights behind her lids, and she covered her ears with a cry as a dreadfully cold wind filled the room.

The song and the bells finished playing their hourly merriment. Long moments passed as she cowered on the floor, but there was no wind, no whispers and no cold touch. There was only the steady 'tick-tock, tick-tock' of the clock.

When she at last opened her eyes, Duck found the monster had vanished. The shadows had receded and no longer held any malice. As she fought to control her tears and steady her heart, Duck had no idea what had just happened or what it was she had seen. She only held the sure desire to never meet it again.

She suddenly felt a pair of warm hands envelope her and immediately came back to her senses. Beating her wings wildly, she flew from the strange hands and escaped to the floor and—

Flew? Wings?

Looking at herself, she did indeed find wings instead of hands and feathers covered every inch of her body. Touching her face, she felt her bill. Duck was once again a duck.

"Were you dreaming, little one?" Came the soft, but deep voice. Looking up from her frail form, Duck found none other than Christian kneeling before her with a smile. He wore no dark clothes, so she was clearly able to see him in the gloom. "It's dangerous to wander about this house at night. The many shadows here will often frighten those who are unfamiliar with them."

The little duck found his deep, church-bell voice a blessed respite from the waking nightmare she had suffered mere moments ago. Feeling relieved, and scared, and discouraged and a millions other things all at once, she did not fight the need to run into the clockmaker's arms and tremble in his embrace.

"There, there now, dear heart…" Christian pet her back soothingly with a warm and gentle hand. Picking her up, allowing her to cling to his yellow vest, he carried her across the room. As he passed through doors, he began to sing.

" _Pendulum had to whir, softly purr_

 _and couldn't strike_

 _that's how pendulums are…"_

Duck buried her face in his shoulder as they stepped out into the pitch black hall, feeling his song vibrate through his bones and into hers.

" _But bells are ringing_

 _Ding-dong, bing bong, bing bong…"_

As he carried her up the many stairs, his voice had lulled her into a light doze.

" _Doll girl, don't be frightened,_

 _bells are ringing loud and long_

 _to chase the King of Mice away…"_

Duck was mostly asleep by the time she felt Christian lay her down between Fakir and Autor.

" _Owl comes flying, black and gray_

 _Pick peck, pick and peck…"_

She snuggled down close to the comforting warmth of Fakir's shoulder and the boy shifted in his sleep to accommodate her as Christian drew the blankets back up to his chin.

" _Bells are ringing, clocks are whirring_

 _pendulums can't help whirring_

 _snick and snack, whir and purr…"_


End file.
